With many shouts she had clumsily enough imprisoned one--a fairy thing of green and bronze--in a hand so plump that it seemed to have been quilted.

A moment she held it, then set it free, perhaps for its lack of spirit.

It crawled and fluttered up the vine, trailing a crumpled wing most sadly, and I took it for my lesson.

Assuredly they were not to be caught with any profit--at least not brutally in an eager hand.

Brush them ever so lightly and the bloom is off the wings.